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In motel beds they cling to each other, like they're trying to meld and become one amalgamation of flesh. Never apart. Always together. Usually they just sleep, sharing each other's breath, so close their eyelashes brush against each other. Sometimes they talk, whispering words into the other's mouths down their lungs.
"I tried it a few times...always made me feel like shit," murmured Benson. "Not worth it if you wanna kill yourself afterward."
Randy pressed his face against his temple, smelling the grease of his hair, feeling the soft locks on his cheek.
"I've... I've just never been interested. In any of that," he admitted.
So they don't.
They wrap themselves around each other. Sweaty skin against sweaty skin. Randy likes to press his mouth against the rough hairy skin of his chest. Benson nuzzles into his throat, kisses the freckles on his collarbone, fascinated by the constellation.
And that's all. And that's enough.